In the same era as Three’s Company, the American public was introduced to Charlie’s Angels with its original cast of Farrah Fawcett, Jaclyn Smith, and Kate Jackson. It’s worth noting that Farrah Fawcett was only a full-time cast member of Charlie’s Angels for one season,94 but she’s the most legendary of the Angels (even including the Charlie’s Angels franchise reboot during the ’90s). Her soft, layered blonde hair inspired a million hairdos, and her hard nipples poking out from a red bathing suit in that legendary poster inspired even more hard-ons.95 The two brunette angels were certainly famous and celebrated, but blonde Farrah garnered the most attention in that trio.
Another classic television portrayal of blonde-on-brunette tension was found in ABC’s hit prime-time soap opera Dynasty. Alexis Carrington vs. Krystle Carrington was a blonde-brunette rivalry for the ages. Alexis (Joan Collins) was the brunette first wife of oil tycoon and silver fox Blake Carrington (John Forsythe). Krystle (Linda Evans) was the ashy blonde second wife, and a love of shoulder pads and gaudy jewelry was the two wives’ only common ground. The Nielsen ratings for Dynasty were flat during its first season (1981), but in season two, when brunette first wife Alexis arrived and initiated the blonde-vs.-brunette tension between wives, the ratings skyrocketed. The American TV-watching public is, sadly, always interested in a good brawl. And brawl they did—Alexis and Krystle engaged in some unforgettable hair-pulling fights, oftentimes in pools. They just don’t make television like that anymore. (Well, they do, but it’s not character acting anymore—now it’s depressing reality.)
Around the time that my older sisters were watching Dynasty, I was inhaling episodes of Punky Brewster like they were fluffernutter sandwiches (something completely verboten in our house so I’d shamelessly chow them at friends’ houses96). On this show, Margaux Kramer was the uppity blonde “friend” (but more of a prototypical frenemy) who wore a lot of pale pink clothing and was completely out of touch with dark-haired Cherie and Punky. Margaux was the focus of an entire episode when the Kramer family—gasp—lost their money and had to move out of their palatial home. Life is so hard! Brunette Punky was charming and somehow relatable, despite the fact that she was a runaway orphan whose bed was a wheelbarrow. The important takeaways from Punky Brewster are that blondes are icy, brunettes are scrappy, and you should never hide in an abandoned refrigerator during a game of hide-and-seek. (I’m looking at you, Cherie!)
In somewhat more recent television, we saw some great blonde characterizations in two Aaron Spelling–produced shows, 90210 and Melrose Place, both on Fox. Perhaps Aaron Spelling was inspired by the blondes who were present in his personal life: wife, Candy (consistently blonde); daughter, Tori (on-again, off-again blonde); and even son, Randy (occasional frosted tips—we all made mistakes in the ’90s!). In the original Beverly Hills, 90210, blondes Kelly Taylor (Jennie Garth) and Donna Martin (Tori Spelling) were Beverly Hills kids and already best friends when the brown-haired Walsh twins transferred to West Beverly High School. Of course brown-haired Brenda was the down-to-earth girl from a stable family comprised entirely of sensible brunettes. Kelly came from a semi- unstable home (of blonde alcoholics!) and had a nose job during high school, fulfilling the ol’ “blondes are vain” stereotype. At least the character of Kelly Taylor wasn’t completely detrimental to the reputation of blondes, unlike Donna “Donna Martin Graduates!” Martin. Donna Martin was the queen of bad implants and brown lipstick, and she certainly didn’t do much for the blonde cause.
Immediately after every episode of 90210, FOX served up the primetime soap opera that was the early 1990s in a nutshell: Melrose Place. The target demographic for Melrose Place was a bit older than that of Beverly Hills, 90210, but the standard tropes remained. All residents of the Melrose Place apartment complex (the corrupt doctor, the cool motorcycle guy, the lame couple) had their own story lines, but it was champagne-blonde man-eater Amanda Woodward who was pitted against the world, it seemed. Amanda Woodward (Heather Locklear) may have been brunette at the roots (inspiring a huge trend in the 1990s), but she was icy blonde on top. Ms. Woodward (if you’re nasty) took no bullshit from anyone (not even hottie Billy, played by Andrew Shue!), and told the world to “F itself.” And we loved her blonde guts for it.
In today’s popular primetime soap opera on the CW network, Gossip Girl, we see another blonde-vs.-brunette matchup. The alternating friendship and rivalry between blonde Serena and brunette Blair provides interesting story lines and plot twists. Serena van der Woodsen (Blake Lively) is California blonde in color but Upper East Side blonde in heritage and location—the ol’ blonde switcheroo—and a stark contrast to brunette Blair Waldorf (Leighton Meester).
Hair color tension isn’t limited to women, though. Blond men and brown-haired males can have tense friendships, partnerships, and relationships, too. Take, for example, the tension among the assortment of hair colors found in ’80s heavy metal supergroup Mötley Crüe. The Crüe is comprised of Vince Neil, Tommy Lee, Nikki Sixx, and Mick Mars. Mötley Crüe was a triumvirate of brunets before blond Vince Neil joined the band to sing lead vocals. When Vince Neil’s drunk-driving accident killed Hanoi Rocks drummer (and friend of the band) Razzle Dingley in December 1984, the brunet trio turned their back on Vince during his darkest time.97 It wasn’t a dark enough time to force platinum Vince to darken his hair, though. The band worked through the tragedy and later emerged, ready to take America by storm again and kick-start more hearts.
All those rivalries between blondes and brunettes might make for good TV and sell celebrity tabloids, but the modern blonde is in touch with her feminist roots and knows it’s always better to show solidarity with her brunette sisters. Blondes today are too wise to get caught in this retrograde model of blonde-vs.-brunette tension. There might be a long tradition of this in pop culture, but it’s time to cast this one off and shake things up. And so, sweet pussycat, I bring you the next rule: Befriend brunettes.
CHAPTER 18
RULE: Befriend Brunettes (and Others)
You can learn a lot from people who are unlike you and have different experiences, beliefs, hobbies, and, yes, even follicle colors. So I implore you, dear reader, to cultivate friendships and partnerships with all hair types: straight, curly, relaxed, natural, none, brown, black, white, red, badly dyed, well dyed, and generally anyone who doesn’t look just like you. Their different and gorgeous hair might startle and intimidate you at first, but shared hair care tips can be the first step to lifelong friendship.
As I have mentioned earlier in the book, in addition to my platinum-haired mother, I grew up with two older brunette sisters and a brown-haired father. We lived in what I like to call a “mixed home.” The five members of the Coppock clan get along despite our varied hair colors. We’re family—we have no choice but to get along. My sisters, Laurel and Emily, have fantastic hair, I must admit. Their tresses might not be quite as stunning as mine, but their hair is better than the average human’s. But, as sisters do, of course we got into sibling tussles every now and then. There were even times during childhood when I felt like the weird daughter because I was given a blonde bowl cut98 while Laurel and Emily had dark, flowing locks. I’ll even admit that I have felt threatened by their shiny dark hair at times. I know! What kind of a pro-blonde author am I? Like anyone, I have passed through some dark valleys during my journey to blonde perfection and self-confidence.
When I first moved to New York City in 2006 to find a new job in publishing and perform as much standup as possible, I was horribly intimidated at every turn. It felt as though around every corner and down every block was a wise New Yorker with more impressive work experience or funnier jokes or better hair. I worried that my professional résumé didn’t stack up, I knew that my standup needed work, and I had left a fantastic Boston colorist behind, so I was all by myself colorwise. Within a few months of landing in Gotham, I found a job as a children’s book editor and discovered some worthwhile open mics and shows where I could perform. My material was still a bit
too provincial and Boston-specific, though. New York audiences just weren’t taking to my hilarious jokes about bizarre characters seen at my beloved Dunkin’ Donuts and sandwich shop D’Angelo’s (probably because Double Deeze and D’Angelo’s just aren’t the cultural touchstones in New York City that they are in Boston—also probably because those jokes were straight-up awful). A comedian never realizes how insular his jokes are until he takes those jokes on the road and the punch lines that used to elicit uproarious laughter from audiences back home instead leave the room silent. I had a night like that about six months into my New York odyssey.
I was performing on a bringer show at the Laugh Lounge99 on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. “Bringer” is standup parlance for a show in which any schmo can perform, provided he has five to ten friends who are nice enough to pay an exorbitant cover charge and drink at least two nine-dollar Bud Lights. Bringer shows happen at legitimate clubs, but usually earlier in the night (before the experienced comedians do their shows) or on off nights like Sundays or Tuesdays. The producer of a bringer show will also book a few veteran comedians so that the show isn’t a complete train wreck composed entirely of nervous newbies whose friends are obligated to laugh at them. Bringers are somewhat unavoidable, though they are a scourge on the comedy industry. But young comedians will do these bringer shows just to get stage time and a tape out of it. Most of these clubs are willing to videotape your set (for a fee, of course), and once you have a good tape, you can use that to submit to comedy festivals or agents and managers.
So there I was, a New York City naïf sitting in a chilly basement comedy club on the Lower East Side, anxiously hoping that my friends who had said they would come to the show would actually come to the show. Oh yeah—that’s the kicker: If your friends don’t show up, you don’t get any stage time. So if the bringer’s producer has required the young comedian to have five audience members in attendance but only four of his pals make it, then he’s shit out of luck. Yes, it’s a terrible system that exploits aspiring comedians and crushes dreams like Gallagher crushes watermelon. That night, I was in the middle of it and quaking like a California cul-de-sac.
“Hey—you’re on the show, right? I’m Leah,” a short brunette introduced herself to me. She was muscular, no-nonsense, and, I would soon discover, hilarious. She had been at the standup game a few years longer than I had, and it showed. Her stage persona was established, her writing was fantastic, and she was comfortable out there. Leah went onto that Laugh Lounge stage, destroyed (standup talk for doing fantastically well), then plopped down at a table among the keyed-up would-be comedians as though nothing had happened. I watched the stage lights reflect off her dark hair and winning smile as I thought, Now that is how it’s done.
I nervously chewed at the fingernails on my right hand while I stared at the set list that I was clutching in my left hand. My heart was pounding, my hands were shaking, and my breathing was shallow. Back in those days, I was still shaky and visibly nervous on stage.100 I would write “Loosen up! Be playful!” on the top of my set lists as though those reminders would salvage my performance somehow. It was during that era that I had a preshow meltdown when an ex-boyfriend happened to appear at a comedy show I was booked on. (Looking back, why the hell did I stick with a trade that caused me so much anxiety and stress? I guess it’s because when you kill on a standup stage, there’s no better feeling. The waves of laughter wash over you, and that makes up for every crummy, stressful show you had to do in order to hammer out those jitters and nerves. I’m guessing that it’s a feeling almost like heavy drug use—the highs are so high that they make you forget about the awful hangovers and withdrawal symptoms. I don’t know about that type of drug use, and I’m not just saying that because my parents are going to read this book. I actually mean it. The last thing I need are drugs to make me even more of a wackadoo. I’m high on life!) I knew that my material was too narrow and Boston-focused for New York City crowds, but I didn’t know what else to do. Bracing myself to go onstage was extra nerve-racking because I knew that my jokes weren’t strong and accessible, but they were all I had.
“She plays clubs and colleges all over the country.101 Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for Selena Coppock.” The host brought me onto the stage. I launched into my seven minutes that started off with a joke comparing my looks to those of then-relevant celebrity Paris Hilton. Yes, I kicked off the set with a blonde joke, effectively. It’s a common thread throughout my life. The set wasn’t terrible, but it certainly wasn’t very good. My Boston-centric jokes required so much explanation that I lost any momentum or energy that I had established with the audience already. Plus, the long exposition required to set up the joke properly then screwed up my rhythm. Although I had performed improv comedy throughout college and for years after college, those skills of quick thinking and flexibility abandoned me when I was alone onstage with just a microphone. So for seven minutes I talked too fast and too much, my hands shook while I held the microphone, and the audience stared at me. Finally it was time for the big finish, a joke that made reference to my hometown—a place where, if entitled teenagers need money, they just visit the backyard of their parents’ McMansions and pluck it off the old money tree, I joked.102 I even said the name of the town (which was really bright since an audience on the Lower East Side of Manhattan definitely knows and gives a rat’s ass about the name of the specific suburb of Boston where you grew up, right?), and after the word “Weston” escaped my lips, a shout of “BOOOO!” come from the back of the room. The “boo” wasn’t ghosty, but it had a friendly, teasing tone, so it didn’t freak me out any more than the entire experience already had. I managed to finish my awful joke and flee the stage to a smattering of applause, then bolt upstairs to the bar where I stared at my set list on that slip of paper and replayed every terrible second in my head while I wondered how the hell anybody ever got good at standup. I was bracing myself for the inevitable post-show comments from my sweet friends who had just overpaid to drink crappy domestic beer while enduring a pretty unfunny comedy show. No doubt they would assure me that they had loved the show and they’d tell me that I had “great energy up there,” which was a nice way of skirting the fact that I was awful. As I wallowed in self-pity, I heard a shout from over my shoulder: “Wildcats suck! Warriors rule!”
I hadn’t heard that refrain since high school, when the rivalry between the Weston Wildcats (my town) and the Wayland Warriors (the neighboring suburb) created battle lines across the myriad towns surrounding Boston with names that start with the letter W. I turned around to discover that the supposed militant Wayland Warrior was Leah, the brunette comedian I had met earlier. Oh no. Was she seriously going to hate me because of my hometown? I needed some savvy comedy friends to help me keep my head above water in the New York scene, and I had hoped she might be one. Her comedy had knocked my socks off, and despite how hilarious she was, Leah had seemed really friendly and approachable downstairs. But was she one of those tools who still believed in high school rivalries? I decided to take the bait.
“You think that Warriors rule? No way! Maroon and gray for life!” I jokingly shouted and laughed.
“Haha! Black and orange for life!” she laughed. This was good—we were both joking around and mocking losers who still believe in hometown football rivalries. “That was me booing in the back. I just couldn’t resist. That’s nuts that you’re from Weston—I’m from Wayland, and my father taught at Wayland High.”
“I used to party with a lot of Wayland kids,” I said. I was a little bit worried about that fact. I had gone out with a few Wayland guys in high school, and that made me none too popular with some of the girls from Wayland. Most of the girls were fantastic, but a handful of Warrior ladies were not pleased when two blondes from Weston (me and Suzanne) started cropping up at Wayland parties. I didn’t blame them, but that didn’t make me stop. Thankfully, Leah was not only unfazed by my years of socializing in Wayland, she was also exceedingly generous.
“Oh, you’re nice to say that—that was pretty painful. I’m having a hard time adjusting my standup to New York crowds.”
“You can easily rework some of your material to open it up. Plus, with that last joke, you need to put yourself in the struggle.”
“How can I do that with that last joke?” I asked.
“Well, it seems like you want to make rich people the butt of the joke, yes? That’s not quite coming through right now. It feels like you are on the inside of that group you’re mocking, and you need to establish that you’re on the outside. Put yourself in the struggle.” She was exactly right. Leah had watched me do seven minutes of jokes and pinpointed exactly what was wrong with my standup in that era. I had never analyzed and dissected my jokes with anyone, and I was beginning to see why my jokes weren’t hitting. Leah was gentle and gracious with her input, and I knew that I wanted to be pals with this lady. But I didn’t want to scare her off, so I squelched my urge to scream “You’re just the friend I need! Please be my pal!” and instead just thanked Leah for her input and said that I hoped to see her smiling face and brown hair around the scene.
The New Rules for Blondes Page 18